


Save a prayer

by WrongSeason



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: AND SO ANGSTY, Ball, Dancing, F/F, Feelings., I literally don’t know what happened, Masquerade, Post-Schism, SO GAY, VFD antics, esmé topping, obvi, pre-Schism, theres sex, this was gonna be sexy and gay and then I fucked my self over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 14:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15003281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrongSeason/pseuds/WrongSeason
Summary: You wish that you could recognise someone, but that’s rather the point of a masquerade.~ Or, Esmé and Jacquelyn excerpts ~





	1. We could call it paradise

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise in advance for this. 
> 
> Work title, and chapter title, come from Duran Duran’s “Save A Prayer”
> 
> Please, please, I implore you to leave a comment if you enjoyed this. It encourages me in ways I can’t explain. 
> 
> Thank you.

You’re a little unsure of yourself walking into the room. It’s packed tight, events like this always are, but there’s space in the middle for the dance floor. You wish that you could recognise someone, but that’s rather the point of a masquerade. 

Even the orchestra have their faces hidden. 

Yours is a simple thing, a harlequin patch of blue and green, on a white base. The reserved nature of it suits you. That’s what Beatrice said at least.

You slide between patrons at the bar, grab a glass of champagne off a passing waiter, and down it before the bubbles have chance to burst on your tongue. You’re pretty sure you spot Jaques and Lemony, deep in conversation, and you wish for some of the Snicket bravery to come your way.

You place the glass down, your free hand is grabbed, and you find yourself being pulled towards someone. 

The perfectly styled yet still soft looking waves give her away. You always thought the platinum was harsh, but in this light it’s practically halo like. Her mask is black, silver lines swirling, meeting white glitter. They look like fireworks.

That’s what she is though.

Beautiful, but entirely capable of burning your fingertips. 

Esmé is a firework in her own right.

The smile on her face is subtle as she pulls you flush against her, and you know she’s recognised you too.

“Hi,” her voice is soft, her left hand warm in your right. 

She lifts slowly, her free hand resting on the small of your back, and you take the initiative to place your left on her shoulder.

“You look beautiful, by the way.”

The blush creeps into your cheeks slowly, and settles high and warm. You dip your head, and she spins you onto the dancefloor with enough force to make you look back up. Grey-blue eyes stare you down, but there’s a glimmer of something more there. 

“Believe me, Jacquelyn. I look in the mirror every day, I know what beauty is.”

And of course she has to ruin the moment. You scoff, and make an effort to regain control, going in to lead with your next step. She pushes back, and smirks down at you.

“I’m taller.”

“I’m more gentleman-ly,” you counter.

“I’m still taller.”

You huff, and let her spin you, landing closer to her than before.

“Don’t you think all these balls and parties are terribly _dull_?” She questions, having leant down to whisper in your ear. A shiver makes its way up your spine, and you twist to reply.

“This one’s only just begun, Es.”

“How about we go have our own party?”

“ _Esmé_.” 

Your tone isn’t half as stern as you’d like it to be, too preoccupied with with the fact that Esmé’s lips are on the high point of your cheek bone. 

How someone so forceful could have such graceful tact, you’ll never understand. How someone so angular and so dominating could show this level of softness, to someone like you.

Her lips leave your skin, and you sigh quietly at the loss of contact. Something that doesn’t go unnoticed. The hand from your back is removed, and she traces her thumb lightly over the bottom of your lip before returning it.

“One song,” she promises, smiling gently. It changes quickly, her eyes darkening, the smile become predatory. “Then I want your gorgeous red lipstick all over me.”

There’s barely enough time for you to process the remark, before the orchestra are slipping into a waltz, and Esmé feels everywhere at once as she leads you gracefully around the dance floor. All eyes are on the two of you, of course. Though it’s hard to figure out whether it’s because people are normally helpless when it comes to staring at Esmé, or whether it’s because this is the first time you’ve been so publicly together. 

Larry teases you for it relentlessly, but he’s the only one you trust enough to keep your secret. After all, you protect him and Gustav like they were your brothers. 

The song finishes almost as quickly as it starts, but it’s probably due to the hold Esmé has over you. You hate it. Except you don’t. Everyone in the room is the captive audience of her, but she makes you feel like you’re the only one she cares about. 

She steps back wordlessly, entwining your fingers and weaving expertly out of the room. You know better than to question where you’re going, letting her drag you into one of the many guest rooms in the venue. 

You’re shoved roughly against one of the columns of the four poster bed, and a startled gasp pushes past your lips. In an entirely un-Esmé like move, she delicately unties your mask, then her own, placing them down gently. 

“Turn.”

It’s a command, not a request, and you obey it, picking up your hands and placing them on the post. 

She kisses the base of your skull, and you’re glad for having wore your hair up, and wearing strapless for once. Her hands come to your zip, pulling agonisingly slow, and you hear a stifled groan as she realises you’re not wearing any underwear. Those lithe digits are warm on your air-cooled skin, pushing the rest of your dress past your hips, pooling it at your feet.

You turn back to face her without her consent, something that would normally elicit a reprimand, however she just seems to be admiring you.

Something feels a little off. Esmé’s usually got you halfway to screaming by this time, too busy with making you be as receptive as ever to care about what you look like. You suppose the change is welcome. 

Her hand cups your jaw, and she pulls you in for a languid kiss, letting her tongue trace it’s way over your bottom lip, like she did with her thumb mere minutes ago. She spins, looking back over her shoulder suggestively. 

“Unzip me?”

You do as told, silently cursing the halter neck, even if it does look amazing. It’s harder to get off, but you slide the zipper down hurriedly, and loop the fabric over her neck to pull the dress down. She’s naked save for her barely there lace underwear, and you press yourself flush against her back, kissing a trail up her neck. 

You feel the hum she gives vibrate against your lips, but it’s replaced quickly with a breathy laugh.

“It’s sweet that you think you’re in charge.”

You don’t really. This is always how it goes. You adore her. In the subtle ways. Your looks and soft touches tell her what she needs to know, and you’ve always been under Esmé’s thumb. 

Esmé is bolder. She adores you back, but it shows in the bruises she leaves on your rib cage, and the ache of your thighs the following morning. She knows she has you, but her feelings are kept in the air between the two of you in the moments you’re alone. 

As she turns back around, you notice how dark her eyes are. It’s something you’ve noticed before, but it’s always seemed more lustful than it is now. Now it’s like she reveres you. Her hands slide up either side of your torso, as she pulls you closer. 

You think she’s going to kiss you, but her lips graze the corner of your mouth before her breath is hot in your ear. 

“Top of the bed, hands on the board. You know the drill, darling.”

There’s a small whine of frustration as you step back to do as told, and she follows you. Your knees hit the back of the bed, and you sink rather ungracefully, because she’s giving you a look you can’t decipher. 

As you slide up, she pulls her underwear down her thighs, stepping out before she pushes your legs apart and settles between them. Your hands find the headboard, and you hold it firmly, waiting for her next move. 

To your surprise she leans over your body, kissing you sweeter than you can ever remember. Her tongue asks for entry, rather than demands it, and you find yourself willing and pliant underneath her, and her right hand strokes the length of your torso, over your hip, the inside of your thigh. 

Your legs spread further, and she laughs dryly against your throat. Her hand slips up the inside of your thigh, and you know that you’re already wet. You can feel it in yourself, and in the way she relaxes against you, groaning warmly. 

“God I love it when you get like this.” 

You whimper slightly, lifting your hips, trying to get anything more. She pulls her hand away instead. 

Looking up, she checks that your hands are still on the board, before kissing down your torso, stopping to leave a blossoming purple patch on the side of your rib. It’s going to hurt, and you’re going to cherish it until it fades, and you receive a new one. 

Swallowing thickly, you try and get your breathing back in check. Inhaling and exhaling to a count of four, you watch your ribs expand and contract underneath her fingertips. Her middle finger pushes against the bruise and you hiss slightly. She smiles at you, wickedly, and you curse the noise. 

Her fingers start to tease your entrance again, and you bite down on your tongue, determined to not give her what she wants. 

“Oh, darling, I know you want it. So go on. _Beg for me_.”

“ _No_.” You grind out, eyes screwing shut as she pushes the tip of her finger in.

“No?” Her tone is incredulous, and you know you’re going to regret your choice of words. 

“Make me want it.” 

Never one to back down from a challenge, she smirks, and then you lose sight of her face and she dips her head to nip a trail across your hip bones. She repeats the biting on the inside of your thigh, and then her tongue is on your clit and you’re seconds away from submitting completely. 

The touch is so light you start to question whether it’s actually there, and you have to fight to hold your moans in check. 

She always knew exactly how to get you going, and you’ve never been this tense this fast. 

“ _Fuck_ , Esmé.”

All contact is stopped, and a somewhat strangled noise leaves you. She’s made you want it, and for the sake of both of your pleasures, you know you might as well beg for it. Pride stops you, and you rearrange your features to a calm serenity. It infuriates her, you can see it in the way she looks at you. Two fingers enter you, a little roughly, and this time the moans come thick and fast. 

She knows what she’s doing, and it’s only making you more wound up. More determined to resist it. 

Her pace slows, and your teeth sink into your bottom lip. You can taste a hint of copper and let your jaw fall slack. 

“I can always stop if you don’t want this.”

You hate how she’s so composed when you’re this undone. 

“Don’t you dare.”

“Tell me what you want, Jacquelyn.”

Oh. 

That’s new. 

Esmé is very adept at taking what she wants, when she wants it. Ordinarily, making you beg is just an ego-boost. Something to fuel the idea that she’s all you want. She makes you cum a hundred different ways, but all on her terms. 

She’s never asked you what you wanted from her before. 

The pause must be too long, because she’s shifted back to your side, pushing your curls out of your face with her free hand. 

Your hands leave the board, rules be damned, and you’re pulling her in to kiss her, biting down on her bottom lip. 

“I want you where you were. I want your tongue on my clit, you know how. I want you to make me _scream_ , Esmé.”

Her hands tangle fully in your curls, as she kisses you once more, pulling your head back to kiss down the column of your throat. You don’t bother holding back this time. 

She always loved your vocality, and always reciprocated in kind when it was your turn. She isn’t shy in showing her appreciation. 

Her lips wrap around your clit, and she lets her tongue soothe over it, curling her fingers forwards. This time, you see the lines of her mask when you close your eyes. 

The fireworks become animated on the backs of your eyelids, and you barely recognise the scream that you make. Your hearing cuts out, and all you can focus on is Esmé bringing you down so softly. 

She pulls out gently, and taps on your lips. You part them, cleaning her fingers like she wants, reluctant to let her move. 

Sitting up, you go to reach for her, to make her forget that this isn’t just about you, but she laughs and shakes her head. 

She settles behind you. Wraps her legs around your waist and kisses the side of your head. She traces lazy patterns on your arms, and you could almost fall asleep listening to the cadence of her heart. 

“Is everything okay?”

Ordinarily, when you’re both satiated you part ways. It’s how it has to be. There’s no time for the warmth of an embrace, or the gentle soothing of her caresses. 

“I didn’t want to taint it before it happened…”

She’s quiet. Too quiet. You turn in her arms, cup her jaw, and the worry on your face grows when you see the sadness on hers. 

“Esmé, what’s going on?”

She blinks softly, and you see her frown. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

You recoil. Shock and hurt causing the knee jerk reaction. 

“How long have you known?”

“Known I was leaving? A month or so. Known it was tomorrow? I found out this morning.”

She looks so small. So unlike the woman you managed to - stupidly - fall for. 

“Go, Esmé.”

She reaches out to pull you back to her, but you shuffle off the bed, circling to pick up your dress and throw hers at her. 

“I said go.”

There’s a faint rustle behind you as she gets dressed, and then her hand is on your shoulder. 

“Jacquelyn.”

She’s apologetic and you can’t stand it. The sting on your hand lets you know what you’ve done. 

“I can’t believe I loved you.”

The look on her face shows that hurt more than the slap, and she walks out without saying another word. 

The mask is the only memory you have of her.


	2. Save it til the morning after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You broke my heart, Esmé.”
> 
> ~ Or, Esmé comes home ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so very sorry this took so long to finish! I hope you all enjoy this (less angsty...ish) chapter!
> 
> Please leave me a comment if you did.

_It’s only a door._

At least that’s what you tell yourself. The door itself does not present an issue, it’s what’s behind it that is causing you to hesitate. You lift your hand to knock, but before you have the chance to, the door swings open.

“Your stilettos are a dead giveaway.”

She’s looking at your shoes. Not quite brave enough to face you, even if her tone is sharp. 

“I’m surprised you opened the door.”

She glances up at this, and you can’t help but notice she’s still wearing her signature red lipstick. 

“It’s been six years, I suppose curiosity got the better of me.”

Six years go fast when you’re lighting fires. But eventually you get burnt, and run back to the thing that soothes you. 

She steps back, turns away from you, and walks into the open plan living room. It’s monochrome, and you wonder how much it would annoy her to point out how _in_ it is. 

“I still have your mask, if you want it back.”

Her voice is so clipped, that you’re transported straight back to that night six years, three months, and eleven days ago. You were an idiot then, and an even bigger one now. 

“Jacquelyn,” your voice cracks, and you take four quick strides, closing the door behind you, and catching her wrist. The staccato clicks echo in the small apartment, until it falls silent. 

She’s resolute, keeping her back turned to you. You were always taller, but in five inch heels whilst she’s barefoot, you tower over her, and pull her to face you. 

“I came to say that I’m sorry, and that I should never have left you.”

She scoffs, pulls her wrist out of your grasp, and moves away from you again. Your hand is left suspended from where you were holding her. 

“You broke my heart, Esmé.”

The emotion has long been stripped out of the comment, and now it’s a statement of fact. Your own heart hurts at her words. 

“You left me, to do god knows what, and now you’re back to say you’re sorry. You’re six years too late for that.”

“2294 days.”

“What?” Her brow quirks at you, and you kick your heels off, making your intent to stay and talk this out clear. The step you take towards her is small this time, and she doesn’t bother moving. Yet. 

“2294 days I spent away from you. And I never once stopped thinking about you.”

“Esmé you only think of yourself.”

“I used to.”

This seems to startle her a little, and though she doesn’t take the step you want her to, she does lean forward a little. Her arms are folded over her chest and you want to unfold them, pull her to you and say sorry with your kisses. 

You don’t. 

“I was always… hedonistic.” 

Her exhalation is derisive, and you stare down at the floor. The word is light, all things considered. There’s plenty more you could say, but you figure anything else is ammunition for her. 

“But you were the one fucking thing I actually gave a damn about. The one fucking thing I…” you pause at this. Suddenly unsure, you look up, hold her gaze. “The one thing I loved, Jacquelyn. I hated myself for leaving you every day. Over 2000 days of torture because I was too much of a coward to say I loved you back.”

This time, when you walk towards her, she stays grounded. You cup her jaw with her hand, guide her so she’s looking up at you. 

“I still love you, even if you don’t love me. Even if you hate me.”

“I never stopped loving you either,” she mumbles. “Even if you hurt me.”

You slide your thumb over her cheek, and wrap your free hand round her back, pulling her into an awkward embrace. 

You never were a hugger. Your nose is buried into the top of her head, and she still smells like apples, and your cheeks feel hot and wet. It’s with a start you realise you’re crying. 

You hiccup, and she pulls away, brushing the tears from your eyes, face steely with determination. 

“I wasted so many tears on you, but I never thought you’d waste any on me.”

It makes you cry more, and she shushes you gently. Standing on tiptoe, she holds you close, better at providing the warmth that a hug should offer. 

You sniffle softly, tears subsiding of their own accord. She pulls back slowly, kisses your cheek, the tip of your nose. Six years ago, you’d have pushed her away, pretended to take offence. But the reality always was her subtle kisses made you fall harder for her. 

She sinks back onto her heels, fingers the lapels of your jacket and pushes it off your shoulders. You wonder what she’s doing, but she takes your hand and drags you into her bedroom wordlessly. 

“You need pyjamas.”

It’s a statement, and you nod dumbly, taking whatever is offered to you, and watching as she grabs a pair for herself. 

She leaves you to change in the bedroom, and re-enters looking particularly snuggly. Her fingers link with yours again, and she pulls you back into the kitchen, filling the kettle and placing it on the stove. 

It bubbles gently, and you reign in another comment about in-ness, because she always made good tea. The kettle whistles, and she pours two steaming mugs, placing one in front of you. 

You let the heat warm your hands through before taking a sip, and you notice that she’s just staring at hers. 

“What’s on your mind?”

“I never thought I’d see you again,” she confesses. “I thought I’d be reading your memorial before seeing your face one more time.”

“Would you have come to my funeral?” You’re not quite sure why you ask. Be it curiosity, desire to know you’re wanted, or something else. 

“I don’t know if I can answer that right now.”

You let the subject drop, going back to your tea. She takes some of hers, and you smile at the way she reacts to the first sip. Her eyes still fall closed, as if she’s letting the warmth and the taste take over all her senses. 

“You still look so beautiful.”

She blushes, the tips of her ears turning pink. 

“Let me guess, you know cause you look in a mirror every day?”

You can’t help but laugh a little. 

“No. I know because you always have been. Inside and out.” 

You watch the flush spread into her cheeks, and over her chest, deepening slightly. You place your hand palm up on the countertop, and she rests hers on top. Folding your fingers round her wrist, you squeeze gently, and she mirrors your actions. She takes her mug in her free hand, swallows the rest of her tea, and stands, pulling you back into the bedroom. 

Settling at the top of the bed, she calls you over, and tangles your legs together. 

That was the last thing you did with her. 

Thinking about it hurts. 

Her hand is warm on the back of your neck, and you let yourself be angled into the right position, eyes fluttering shut before her lips even make contact. 

You sigh lightly, and she smiles against you. 

When you pull back, there’s a blush to your cheeks. It burns in the most delightful way. 

“I need to trust you, Esmé. And I don’t know if I do.”

You’re not quite sure how to react to that, so you focus on taking even breaths. There’s a million things that you want to say, none of which are right. You slide a hand round her back, and roll so that you’re both flipped. She’s looking down at you, and you have to stop yourself from leaning up. 

“I don’t know the words to say to make things better. And I’m not expecting you to trust me straight away,” you take a breath, push her curls out of her face. “But tell me what to do and I’ll do it. I never showed you how much I love you, and it’s about time I start. It’s time I start listening to you.”

She swallows thickly, and you wonder if she’s going to ask you to leave. Again. Instead, she pushes her hands up under your shirt, over the plane of your stomach. She stops when she feels your scars. 

She sits back on her heels, tugs your shirt up, and looks at the burn marks, thumb tracing the edge of the worst ones. You wince slightly. It doesn’t hurt, not anymore, but you weren’t prepared to have to face this so soon. 

“What happened?” Her voice is wobbly, so you take her free hand, link your fingers together. 

It’s domestic, for you. 

“ _He_ happened.”

There’s no need to elaborate of course. You’re pretty sure that Jacquelyn would have been the end of him herself if she could. Though she’d always prided herself on clear morals. 

“He’s _gone_ ,” she stresses, and you acknowledge that her fingers are flexing into the back of her hand. You know she wants to say more, but you don’t push it. Push her. 

You’re too close to getting her back. He took you from her once and you’ll be damned if you let him do it again. 

You sit up slightly, take your free hand and tangle it in the curls at the base of her skull. You pull her towards you, and rest your foreheads together. There’s a small splash on your cheek, and you swipe your thumb over hers, trying to stop any more tears from falling. 

“I promise.”

She kisses you deeply, nipping at your bottom lip as she pulls away. You moan softly, wanting to be annoyed at yourself for the slip and finding you can’t be. Stoic-ness only gets you so far. 

Her hands pass over your scar again, and this time your reaction is softer, a light smattering of goosebumps on your arms. She does it again and again and again until you no longer react. Until you simply let your eyes fall shut at such a gentle, and such a - dare you think - loving touch. 

Your own hands find the bottom of her shirt, and you slide them up her back, curling your fingers over her shoulders. 

“Can I?”

She nods enthusiastically, and you pull it over her head, throwing it somewhere. You don’t care where. 

Sitting back, she pulls at your shirt, and you lift up to help her take it off, glad when she finally relaxes against you. You relish in the skin-on-skin contact, and have to swallow the rising emotion in your throat. It gets caught, and you choke, and she kisses you before you can apologise. 

Her touches seem to set fires - the good kind - across all of your body at once, and you can’t stop the involuntary reactions you give her. Light breaths, a rise of goosebumps, and finally collapsing on the bed when her hand slides into the front of your shorts. 

Your brain short circuits as nimble fingers slide across your clit, down further to tease your entrance. 

“Jacquelyn,” you whine, tangling your fingers into her curls to pull her in for a searing kiss. 

Always a wonder at multitasking, she manages to kiss you with all the passion six years can harbour, and slowly enter you with two fingers, making you gasp into the kiss. 

Her thumb rests on your clit, running small, quick circles, and you find that it’s all too much. 

The emotion, the passion, the touch, the everything that has ever happened between the two of you. 

You scream. It’s all that you manage to remember before you realise you’re wrapped up in her arms, her lips on your temple. You lean into it, trying to stop yourself from crying. _Again._

You lift your hand to cup her jaw, and it feels so much better this time. So right. 

“I love you.”

She kisses you. 

“I know, Es. I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I HURT MYSELF. IM SORRY. PLEASE FEEL FREE TO SHOUT AT ME. 
> 
> Anyways. There is another chapter coming, though I can’t promise when.


End file.
